


This Echo of Hours

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blogging, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Bullied Sherlock Holmes, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Coming In Pants, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Frottage, Gay Sherlock, Hedgehogs, Hufflepuff John, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Loyal John, M/M, Mycroft is still The Government, Not Canon Compliant, Otters, Pining Sherlock, Potterlock, Protective John, Quidditch Player John Watson, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slytherin Sherlock, Smitten Sherlock, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, Yule, boys in bed, boys in boys, in a modern sense, smol sherlock, winter holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-07 10:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Sherlock’s hand gripped the wand in his pocket so hard it almost snapped. He’d known it would be some such intolerable nonsense the moment the door swung open far enough to reveal his detestable brother occupying one of the chairs set before the Headmistress’s desk. "You must understand that these kinds of engagements are necessary," he’d said in that damn hyperbole of poshness that was his accent, "as you, one day, will be expected to become a great man."





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EchoSilverWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/gifts).



> Prompted by and gifted to the incomparably lovely and talented [EchoSilverWolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf/works) (also found on [twitter](https://twitter.com/EchoSilverWolf) and [tumblr](https://echosilverwolf.tumblr.com/)). Beta'd by a new treasure in the fic community, [libetdawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/libetdawn). (Keep an eye on her, folks. Once she gets going, there'll be no stopping her.)

Sherlock’s hand gripped the wand in his pocket so hard it almost snapped. He’d known it would be some such intolerable nonsense the moment the door swung open far enough to reveal his detestable brother occupying one of the chairs set before the Headmistress’s desk.

"You must understand that these kinds of engagements are necessary _,"_ he’d said in that damn hyperbole of poshness that was his accent, "as you, one day, will be expected to become a great man."

A great man. Like that was anything he cared about. But his real passion fell just short of a source of derision in his family, a waste of their ancient blood. And now, this. He’d have O.W.L.s at the end of this year, and while he was easily first in his class, obtaining O’s in every subject was critical to arguing the validity of his intended profession; he needed to convince his parents -- and perhaps more so, his brother -- that it was his genuine desire, chosen despite the availability of all other avenues.

He sneered at the gargoyles-guarding-the-gate and skulked off toward the dungeon to find out who, exactly, he would be forced to frighten off in order to unburden himself of this tedium as swiftly as possible.

"Honestly," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he slipped through the door into the common room, "this is simply unbearable. To squander my time and knowledge on someone too idiotic to manage for themselves." He rolled his eyes and settled with a book before the fire, waiting to be summoned by his Head of House. _What a hateful activity: tutoring._


	2. Potions: A Seven Percent Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson meets his new tutor.

John Watson sat a table in the library, waiting.

 

And waiting.

 

And waiting.

He was itching to get back outside; it was only the third week of term and the practice pitch was calling his name. He had try-outs to organize, new plays to map, and more than anything, he just wanted to get back into the air; nothing compared to the exhilaration of his feet leaving the ground, his grip solid on the handle of his broom, his hair blowing into a disheveled mess as he took aim with the quaffle. Spending half the summer holidays with his miserable magic-hating muggle father had felt like utter torture, drawing out the hours until he’d be able to resume his post as Hufflepuff team captain and senior chaser.

Unnatural as his father thought flying to be, frivolous as his witch sister considered any adult who dedicated their time to sport, John couldn’t resist the pull. He’d go out for a professional spot if he thought he had the talent, but he was too practical to rest his hopes on that. And so here he was, aiming for the right N.E.W.T. scores to pursue the next best thing. Which is why he sat, the picture of patience despite the restlessness bubbling up within him as he waited and waited and _waited_.

And yet, he was somehow surprised when his new Potions tutor threw himself into a chair across the table and curled inexplicably into a thin shadowy ball. He took in the onyx-haired fifth year who’d been assigned to him. _What’s black and white and green all over?_ he thought, suppressing a giggle.

“Either a jealous zebra or a Holmes. Despite what I’m sure were his best efforts, I see that Mycroft was unable to rid these halls of that pathetic excuse for a joke about my family’s appearance in House colors. Perpetrated by a brave and self-congratulatory Gryffindor, no doubt.” He punctuated his rant with random yet forceful turns of pages in the glittering emerald-toned volume he had dropped unceremoniously onto the table upon his arrival.

“Actually,” John countered, his expression still genial, “I’ve heard the credit goes to your brother.”

“Mycroft?! Impossible. First of all, he would never be bothered to engage the--”

“No, not him. There’s another one, isn’t there?”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, and John couldn’t be sure whether it was shock that he knew about the eldest brother or something more… personal.

“Ther-Sherrinford?”

“Yeah, that’s it. And I suppose --”

“I… he…” The younger boy nodded absently, reminding John of the little dog his father insisted on displaying on top of his car dash. This time he knew enough not to betray any signs of laughter.

“And I suppose that makes you Sherlock. They didn’t tell me who’d be coming.”

“Yes, well. They wouldn’t, would they. Not considering they want their hero to achieve the necessary marks to--”

“Hero? What… I mean, who says I’m a hero?”

The roll of Sherlock’s eyes was harsh and intolerant, but John saw something in those sad grey irises that told him the family he’d been warned about might’ve produced someone just a bit deeper than he appeared.

“Nevermind. And why wouldn’t they tell me I would be tutored by Sherlock Holmes? You’re top in your year every term, from what I hear.”

“That year happens to be two beneath your own.”

“Can you help me pass my Potions N.E.W.T.?”

A suspicious expression flashed across pale features for an instant before being replaced by haughty boredom.

“Obviously.”

John shrugged. He didn’t care who helped him, as long as they did. Between his studies and Quidditch, there was no room for concessions to his ego. _Hufflepuff to the core, I am._

“Shall we get started then?” John threw his book open with a flourish, searching for the draught that had most recently given him trouble, when he felt curious eyes boring into him. “Something the matter? I was thinking we could start with… why don’t you have the textbook with you?”

“I don’t need it.”

“Look, ok, I know you’re a genius or something. Fine. But this is seventh year work. Even if you can understand it more quickly than I can, there’s no way you could possibly --”

“I. Don’t. Need. It.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. This kid… Nothing about him was any different from anyone else. And yet, somehow, he looked…

“No,” Sherlock muttered to the top of the bookshelf behind John, “I’m the same as the rest of you. I could enumerate the reasons, if you’d care to listen, but you wouldn’t, so let’s move on, shall we? You need a tutor, I need to get The Ministry off my back; therefore, it would be most expedient if we could simply make this work. Quickly.”

John nodded. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so guilty; he was sure he hadn’t done anything wrong, though he’d clearly offended Sherlock. _Best be getting down to it, then,_ he decided, clearing his throat.

“Been having a hard time with this silencing draught,” he said humbly, motioning to the text with a tilt of his head. “It’ll be on the exams, and they say only seven percent of students brew it successfully. So I suppose this’ll be our main focus - think you can help me score a seven-percent-solution?”

He giggled, failing to notice the unconscious way the younger student scratched at his arm through his robes.


	3. Charms: Conductor of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns what Sherlock reads. Sherlock learns about the badger.

“Swish and flick, eh Watson?” The boy laughed at his own joke, adding an obscene hand gesture. Sarah Sawyer had smiled and winked while passing John where he stood in the entrance to the library, and that had been enough to set off his two teammates once she’d moved out of earshot. Everyone knew she regretted breaking it off with him at the end of summer term, particularly since he’d returned from his holidays tanner and more muscular, if not any taller.

Sherlock’s lip twitched as he shifted his gaze back to his Charms essay. Three feet and one quarter inch. Done. He could’ve written a textbook on the physics of wandwork that limited the use of charms beyond a certain distance, but he kept himself to what had been requested. And yet, he was always being referred to as--

“You’re quite the Granger, I take it.”

“I assume you’re referring to the current Deputy Minister of Magic, and in that case… no. While I am as capable -- I daresay, more capable -- than she was, I derive no particular pleasure from the exposition of my skills in such a dull form as _homework._ ”

John held up his hands in silent surrender and nodded toward the parchment Sherlock was rolling while he removed his own study materials from his canvas messenger bag. “What’ve you been working on, then?”

A long suffering sigh should’ve adequately communicated the tedium of this topic, but when he looked up, the chaser was blinking at him expectantly from his seat across the library table.

Another sigh. “Finished. Charms. Limitations of wandwork.”

The older boy’s eyes lit up. “I remember that one, yeah. Came up on my O.W.L. I wrote about charms not working through solid objects.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, one rogue curl falling in front of his guarded eyes. “So’ve I.”

“Ha, guess we’ve got more in common than you think. Shall we get started?” He launched into the latest issue he’d been having with the silencing draught without waiting for an answer, focusing uncomfortably closely on every word Sherlock uttered.

He was used to being the center of academic attention, of course, both in the classroom and the common room, though the latter was fraught either with ridicule or threats. He never collapsed under the pressure, but more than a few scrapes and welts were hidden -- thankfully -- by his cloaks, purchased at Mummy’s insistence from the small bespoke backroom of Madam Malkin’s. (“We must be seen entering and leaving, but that doesn’t mean we need to be seen in off the rack, dear,” she would remind him before each year commenced. _Dear_ was a far more civilized term of derision than his classmates typically selected for him, though it hid a far more dangerous punishment should the sought after response not be provided.)

Both Sherlock’s internal and external monologues were disrupted by the shift of wood and a lilting giggle at the next table. Sarah Sawyer, two other Ravenclaw girls, and three Hufflepuff girls had taken up residence as close as possible, no doubt to distract and somehow entice his client. With almost painful predictability, the corner of John’s mouth tugged toward a smile.

“You don’t… do you mind if I?” He gestured toward Sarah. “Just for a minute? Ta,” and up he jumped, striding over with all the confidence of a true athlete.

 _Boring,_ Sherlock thought, collecting his belongings swiftly and almost running for the door, nearly knocking over a fifth year Hufflepuff in the process. Molly Hooper called out to him in a hesitant but chipper tone.

“Sherlock? Where…”

But he’d already turned the corner, heading for the main hall doors and the lingering warmth of autumn.

* * *

“Can’t blame you,” John’s voice rose above the splashing of the giant squid. He’d jogged the length of the lawn to catch up with Sherlock, finally pulling even near a tree on the embankment. “And sorry. I didn’t expect them to turn up like that.”

“Sarah.”

John frowned, not certain why it’d sounded like a statement.

“Sarah turned up. Not _them._ ”

“Yeah, ok. Point is, it’d’ve been rude to--”

“Point is, it was r-- it makes your priorities clear. And since studying Potions isn’t one of them, I’ll presume that my tenure as unpaid instructor has come to a timely end.”

“Look, I chased you down to apologize, but if you don’t want to hear it…” But John didn’t turn away, and as the seconds passed, Sherlock could feel the older boy’s clenched fists and guilty stare where he still stood behind him. Thin shoulders sagged under ebony robes, and the voice that continued turned softer. “I am sorry. You’re right; it was rude. You’re not getting anything out of this, and you still turned up a second time.” He stepped forward until he could take in sharp, sad features. “Forgive me, Sher?”

“Do not. Ever. Call me. Sher.”

John knew he’d won this round, and threw himself and his bag to the grass, stretching with an exaggerated groan of pleasure. He laughed lightly at the expression of impatience on Sherlock’s face, then pretended to have trouble finding his quill in his bag, deciding to capitalize on this newfound goodwill between them.

“I’ve never seen you at dueling club or down on the Quidditch pitch -- not even in the stands. So what’s your game, then?”

“Haven’t got one.” The reply was aimed at the glistening deep blue of the lake, but revealed no sign of irritation.

“Come on. Everyone’s gotta have at least one,” he prodded, suddenly realizing he didn’t know anything about his grudging tutor besides his lineage. “What do you enjoy, then? How d’you spend your time?”

 _Not quite the same question,_ the younger boy reflected, wrapping his left arm around himself instinctively. “I read, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

John hummed, finally retrieving his quill and inkpot, the latter shaped like a tiny pouncing badger. “What do you read, then?”

His tutor turned, blinking as though he’d suddenly awoken in a strange place. “What?”

“You said you like to read. Must be something pretty interesting if it keeps you from the Quidditch matches.” He wiggled his eyebrows teasingly. “So what is it you read?”

“Detective stories.” Sherlock’s hand flew to his mouth a moment too late to contain his answer. It would be all over school in a matter of days, as if life wasn’t hard enough, and the occasional jeering looks from the classmates not yet participating in the physical abuse would surely turn--

“No way! Like, Muggle ones? I love those!”

“You…” he began suspiciously,”love… them.”

“Yeah. Especially those kind where the police are out of their depth and a private detective solves the case and becomes a hero. I know I could never be as clever as all that, but even to be allowed on the scene, maybe make notes about the cases or something? The intrigue, the danger… that’s the life. I bet you could be one of those blokes.”

Sherlock nodded cautiously. “Detectives that clever have never been seen before, but I do wonder, sometimes, if a wizard in the Muggle world might have a shot.”

“You’d need a Muggle-born to show you the ropes. Maybe if you become a famous detective, you’ll let me be your notetaker,” he giggled at his suggestion, though there was something new flashing in his eye. “What d’you say? Partners?”

“Ninety-ten.”

“Sixty-forty.”

Without knowing why, Sherlock found himself reaching out to shake on the offer, pulling back rapidly when his knuckles grazed the inkpot perched on top of a pile of books John had removed in the search for this quill.

“Ow, why’s that thing so hot?!”

“Oh, right, sorry. Yeah, it’s… it’s made of metal. Excellent conductor of light, that badger.”

“Heat,” Sherlock corrected, accidentally making eye contact for the first time that day.

“Heat,” John agreed, uncertain why his voice dropped just then.


	4. Muggle Studies: That’s What People Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John just wants Sherlock to do something normal; he doesn't expect to find a new "normal" for himself.

“Just once?” he pleaded across his House’s heavy oak table. He didn’t know why he was so invested in seeing this sulking raincloud of a fifth year in the stands, but once John learned that Sherlock had never attended a Quidditch match in all his time at the school, he felt compelled to win him over. “Listen, this Saturday we’re playing Ravenclaw. You won’t even have to root against your House, what d’ya say?”

Sherlock snapped his head up sharply, eyes the color of freshly cut grass narrowing almost comically. “Why on earth would I root against my own House?”

“Well, to quote my favorite teacher:  _ obviously _ \--” John’s smile grew as the expected genial frustration took hold of his tutor’s features “-- to cheer me on.”

“John!”

At the sound of his name, the captain turned toward the Ravenclaw table and the bold redhead awaiting his attentions. The timing was rather fortuitous; one moment longer, and he’d have seen the crimson soaking into defiant cheekbones. Unfortunately, his change in hue wasn’t lost on Molly.

“Sherlock! What’s got you so worked up? You look as though you’ve been embarrassed by a ghost!” she exclaimed.

“Nothing,” he coughed, quickly diverting his gaze to the tabletop and collecting his quills, scrap parchment, and emerald-covered book. He hoisted his leather satchel over his shoulder and bolted for the Slytherin table at the far side of the Great Hall, dropping heavily onto the scarcely populated end away from the professors’ table. No sooner had he begun picking at a chocolate tart than he felt the bench shift with an unexpected weight. 

“You’re going to make me apologize again, aren’t you?” John asked levelly, selecting a raspberry tart for himself. “Mmm,” he continued through a mouthful of crumbs, “why doth Shlytherin haf more ‘sserts than Huffpuff?”

“Mycroft. And while we were not technically studying, I would suggest--”

“Listen,” John swallowed happily, “I’ll make you a deal. You come to the match on Saturday, and I’ll have a talk with Sarah, let her know that if I’m with you, I’m off-limits. No more interruptions, just the two of us. You have my word.”

Sherlock’s nodded slowly, a look of apprehension blinking rapidly out of bright jade pools to reveal nothing but cool stone as he prepared for the exposure that would be left when his  _ client  _ walked away. He waited.

 

And waited.

 

And waited.

“Fine, you’ve never been to a Quidditch match,” John’s words were belied by his incredulous tone, “but what about other… I don’t know… events?”

“I told you. I read.”

“It can’t be all reading though, even with your grades. You must get out sometimes? Hogsmeade weekends?”

Sherlock grudgingly agreed. After all, he did need supplies. Well, and…

“Cool, never noticed you there, we’ll have to grab a drink together next time around. So there’s Hogsmeade. Let’s see, what else. Oh! The Yule Ball! You must be planning to attend the--”

“No.” Wide steely eyes answered as loudly as Sherlock’s voice.

“Aw, come on, you’re a Holmes, right? Don’t you have to learn the ancient art of dancing or something?” The left corner of John’s mouth ticked upwards, but there was an unmistakable softness in his eyes -- an expression which appeared particularly foreign to the boy refusing to notice the way John’s eye color deepened when he made a joke.

“As it happens, I have learned that art, and am in fact rather skilled. Dancing has nothing whatsoever to--” he caught himself and redirected. “I do not plan to attend the Ball.”

“Hm. No date?” the older boy inquired between bites of his second tart.

“Date? No.” Sherlock’s voice became quieter, and he craned his neck to ensure that none of his Housemates were eavesdropping -- this was the last conversation he needed them to overhear -- and removed his emerald book, a parchment, and a quill from his bag.

“What about Molly?”

“Who?” He didn’t even bother looking up now that he knew what John would be on about, even if he didn’t know whom.

“Molly. You know.” John waited for recognition to dawn, but the younger boy simply blinked blankly. “The Hufflepuff girl who sat across from us back there?” He gestured over his shoulder to where they’d been studying before dinner started. “If I had a guess, I’d say she fancies you. Why not ask her to the Ball? She’s smart, seems like a nice girl.”

Quill still scratching rapidfire across paper, Sherlock huffed and shot back, “Not really my area.”

“What, Hufflepuffs?” came the mock-insulted response.

“Girls.”

“What?”

Pale skin flushed full scarlet as his unconscious slip hung in the air between them, Arctic blue irises contracting to restrict access to the workings within. Mouth rounded perfectly in shock at his own utterance, the only sounds escaping was a monosyllabic, “Oh.”

“OH!” The chaser’s face was awash with sudden understanding, and he was too stunned to move as Sherlock clutched his writing instruments in one hand and his bag in the other and bolted full-tilt out of the Great Hall.

* * *

John watched the following morning as a richly patterned eagle owl alighted regally on the far end of the Slytherin table. Sherlock must not’ve been used to much mail, because there was unmistakable surprise on his face as he looked over his shoulders before unraveling the small slip of paper. The Hufflepuff smiled weakly to himself, hoping the simple sentence would be enough:  _ See you at the pitch on Saturday.  _

His head turned back to his right. “Sorry, Sarah. What were you saying?”

***

The older boy craned his neck Thursday morning; the unusual flurry of mail arriving made it difficult to see even the over-large Holmes owl, but once he spotted the mess of black curls at the end of the table, his eyes locked on. Same time, same scroll. Despite Sherlock’s back being to him, he could almost see the furrow between his brows.  _ See you at the pitch on Saturday. _

He started at the sound of his name. “Oh, Sarah, right. Hi.”

***

John drew his star charts at his favorite table in the library that evening, just in case. The common room was stuffy anyway.

***

The Hufflepuff stared straight ahead toward the boy two tables away. Good news was, with fewer people down this end of the table, there were quite a few more scones to be had. The rustle of wings and… This time Sherlock seemed resigned, which made sense for a supposed genius. Same parchment, same handwriting, same ‘ _ See you at the pitch Saturday.’  _

“Nevermind. Good luck tomorrow -- you’ll need it against us.”

John looked up slowly. “What was that?”

But Sarah had already gone.


	5. Herbology: It’s for Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers the truth about Sherlock, and Sherlock discovers what John is made of.

“I saw you, you know.”

Sherlock froze, his lean frame hunched across the library table, index finger still aimed at the instruction regarding the precise weight division of the three necessary sets of willingly given hedgehog quills. 

“Impossible,” he blurted, the force of his breath crunching the word into a single syllable. “I was--”

“Yeah, careful not to be seen,” John shook his head. “I still don’t quite understand you, the way you do things. Why you do things, or avoid doing them. But either way -- I saw you. And I have to say…” 

In that beat between words, Sherlock’s brain became a Fizzing Whizbee of thoughts, memories, fears. Had he not sufficiently covered his tracks? Why would John have been hanging around the Hog’s Head, and how had he not noticed him on the way out? It wasn’t until he was safely back in his dorm that he’d risked--

“It kind of… this is going to sound...” John coughed, “I’m glad you were there. At the match. Knowing you’d never come out to one before it was… it kind of meant something.” He caught his tutor’s eye, his gaze lingering just a beat too long, then he coughed again and began reviewing the weights of quills aloud. 

Sherlock remained stock still, staring at the textbook across the table with his mouth drawn into a tight line. He didn’t know why he had assumed that John had seen him in Hogsmeade the day following the Quidditch match. No one had ever seen him, and until this moment, he’d felt secure in that. Why would he suddenly assume…?

“Earth to Sherlock!”

The younger boy jerked his head up as if waking from an unpleasant dream. 

“Hey, welcome back. Where did you go? Thought we were finally making some progress with this quill thing. And while we’re on the subject, any chance you can explain to me what would make a hedgehog ‘willingly give’ its quills to someone?”

“Yes… I can… I… Sorry, I’ve got to…” and with that, he grabbed his bag and walked out, left hand grasping the back of his own neck and nearly tripping over the threshold into the darkening corridor.

* * *

Sherlock perched in his usual spot on the end of the Slytherin bench, pushing his mash around until it more closely resembled a crime scene than something edible. His already six foot frame was tucked so far around his plate it looked as if he would fold in on himself and implode. His left side was curved beneath the table, and he winced ever so slightly as John’s weight jarred the bench. 

“You weren’t talking about the match, were you?” The older boy sat facing out into the room, his elbows supporting him against the table. “You thought I’d caught you someplace else. I’ve been watching you for a few days now, and I don’t think it was any place you shouldn’t have been here in the school, so that leaves Hogsmeade. Am I right?”

Sherlock shrugged, too worn down to argue. “You’ve been watching me. Why would you waste valuable Quidditch planning time on that?”

John blinked thoughtfully for a long moment, then leaned over conspiratorially. “Don’t tell any Hufflepuffs, but I do have other interests.”

“Interests?” The eyes that flashed upward then were an olive-tinged grey, hinting at a storm brewing just beyond the horizon. 

A quick smile flitted across thin pink lips. “Yeah. Interests.” The briefest touch of a tongue to that lower lip, then his expression grew serious. “And right now, I’m interested in that arm of yours,” he nodded. “Lift up the sleeve of your robe.”

“Why would I be concerned with what you think I should--”

“Just do it.”

Sherlock sighed, clueless as to why he found himself acquiescing so easily, and unable, for the evening, to care. 

“And your jumper,” John pointed at the deep green knit, which was slowly, gingerly, shamefully rolled up a bony white arm. “Oh, Sherlock,” he whispered, reaching cautiously to hold the skin purpling from welts and bruises matching fingers and what appeared to be a strike with a wand. He looked into far away eyes that were already pleading for a pact of silence. “Why wouldn’t you tell your Head of House?”

“Professor Adler? How do you suppose that would go?” His tone was icy, but there was a trembling beneath the words that gave him away. 

“Hmm. What about the Headmistress, then?” John turned his attentions back to the wounds. “Surely Professor Hudson wouldn’t… wouldn’t… Sherlock?”

The injured boy swallowed.

“Sherlock, what are these marks?” He pushed the sleeve up further, revealing punctures in the soft skin where his arm bent.

“You’re Muggle-born, John. I assume you’re familiar with--”

“Where are you getting… ohh. Hogsmeade. Right? Is that what you thought I saw?”

He turned away, tugging down his sleeves, shoving his plate away, and reaching for his bag. A bag which was snatched out of his grasp before he could lay a finger on it.

“Not again. You’re done running out on me. You run out, and this doesn’t stay between us. Understood?”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, mercury and sable trading places in a rapid cycle with turquoise. 

“I’m going to help you handle this. Send a list of what you’ve taken, by owl, to my common room, then meet me just after dawn under that same tree by the lake. Tonight I’ve got to acquire a few… supplies. And you’ll be taking nothing more, yeah?”

The younger boy nodded mutely as John tossed back his bag and stood, barely processing, himself, what had just taken place. The seventh-year strode to the Hufflepuff table, then shouted across the Ravenclaws, “It’ll be cold - bring a scarf!”

Sarah Sawyer had had enough of her meal and left the Great Hall, a small group of sixth and seventh-year girls running to keep up. For reasons he chose not to analyze, Sherlock Holmes smiled.

* * *

Sherlock’s cloak stirred in the wind; the fringe at the end of his scarf tangled with itself. He watched the short-statured silhouette jog down the slight hill toward the tree where he waited, the rising sun a pale mauve on the horizon. He could already feel the itch, the lack of that vile Muggle relief from the world, clawing in his veins. 

“Hey.” John’s breath fogged the air between them, though it promised to be pleasant enough weather by midday. 

“Hello,” Sherlock managed, suddenly aware that he had turned up without question, though he was uncertain exactly why he had been summoned. The older boy, with his Quidditch team captaincy and his reputation at stake, could easily have brought his Head of House, Professor Lestrade (who the Hufflepuffs dubbed “Papa Lestrade,” for reasons he was sure no Slytherin would ever understand), or worse, the Headmistress herself, who was rumored to have dealt rather harshly with users and dealers of Muggle drugs in the past. He could’ve turned Sherlock in, either out of risk avoidance for himself or in an attempt to help a fellow student. And yet, it hadn’t occurred to him once to disobey John’s directive.

The seventh-year had immediately knelt on the dew-damp grass, drawing a small wooden board from his satchel and setting upon it a size 8 cauldron and several velvet pouches. A quick wave of his wand and bluebell flames sprouted beneath the cauldron. Working quietly, John examined the contents of the pouches -- a variety of strange plants, apparently -- breaking off bits here and there and adding unmeasured amounts which somehow liquified over the heat and began melding into a noxious-smelling lavender concoction.  When it began to emit strange popping crystals, he beckoned to Sherlock to kneel beside him.  

“Drink this.”

The Slytherin looked around for a cup, then returned a questioning and rather put-out gaze to his incidental Healer.

“Straight from the cauldron. All of it.” He rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s incredulous expression. “Just trust me, you git. Bottoms up.”

The younger boy chewed his lip briefly, then inhaled and chugged the lot of it as though it were a pint of butterbeer, holding his breath against the miserable scent. 

John chuckled as a shiver wracked Sherlock’s body upon finishing. “Yeah, it’s nasty,” he admitted, “but it should work.”

“Work at what, precisely?”

“Withdrawal. You won’t have any. Or cravings, if I’ve mixed it properly.”

Sherlock settled back onto his heels, shock mingling with the yellowing sunlight on his face. How could he not experience--

“I’m not a complete dunce, you know. And herbology is kind of… well, it’s always been my thing. The potions themselves are a bit tough, but when it’s all plants…” he shrugged modestly, trailing off. 

“And this works on cocai-- on Muggle substances?”

“Should, yeah. Only one catch.”

Sherlock waited expectantly, not even trying to hide his awe.

“It can’t solve the problems that drove you to it. Those you’ve got to handle on your own.”

“Right,” he replied to the grass at his knees before drawing himself back up to much less than his full six feet. “Thanks then. I’ll, um… thanks.” And with that, he retreated back toward the castle. On his own.


	6. Care of Magical Creatures: More Than That, He’s a Good One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation in the hallway changes more than the evening's study plans.

“Oi! Freak!”

John watched as Sherlock’s back stiffened at the sound of Sally Donovan’s voice. He hoped his tutor wouldn’t rise to the bait of her taunts; he’d heard her bully younger students in the corridors before, and apparently now she’d locked on to her target for the afternoon.

“I’m talking to you, Freak. Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore one of your Housemates in the halls?” She reached out a fist, took aim at the pile of books in Sherlock’s arms, and gasped as her own came crashing to the floor instead. “What do you think you’re… Oh, hello. Watson, isn’t it?” She forced a smile at the Quidditch star as she stooped to collect her things. 

“It is.  _ And that wasn’t an accident, _ ” he answered, returning a smile with a few too many teeth showing. 

Sally shoved her books haphazardly into her bag and closed some of the distance between them, still smiling, though now rather patronizingly. “Listen,” she began, “I know you’re the do-gooder type, but don’t waste your time on The Freak here.”

“I wasn’t.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to John’s. During the one Potions study session they’d had since that chilly morning by the lake, he’d admitted that the withdrawal had indeed been non-existent, though John didn’t feel confident in his ability to refrain beyond next Hogsmeade weekend. 

“I wasn’t,” he repeated, “wasting my time.” He raised his voice for the benefit of the small crowd of onlookers that’d gathered. “And I can assure you that Holmes is no freak.”

“And just how would  _ you _ know that?” Sally asked as though she’d already triumphed.

“Because,” John stood straighter, squaring his shoulders for effect, “he’s with me.”

Sally’s brow furrowed, and a vague murmur ran through the crowd. 

“Now, for some reason, I’ve lost my appetite. Sherlock,” John’s body turned, but his eyes remained locked on his adversary’s, “let’s head back to study at mine.”

The whispering grew more intense around them as they moved toward the Hufflepuff dormitory, one plainly defiant and one feigning haughty boredom to mask his utter shock at the turn the situation had taken. 

As they reached the common room entrance, the tap-tap tap-tap-tap of John’s wand on an indistinguishable barrel seemed to break Sherlock rather abruptly out of his daze -- or perhaps, given his frown, an inner debate of some kind. They stepped single file through the short tunnel and continued in silence until both had settled onto a giant overstuffed sofa. 

“It’s only gone four,” Sherlock stated vaguely, blinking into the roaring flames before them. He didn’t even seem to notice the students now trickling into the room behind them, a few of whom belied their knowledge of the afternoon’s recent events by dropping their voices too quickly upon glancing toward the fireplace.

“Yeah, well, from Halloween it’s lit permanently. Isn’t yours?” The answer was obvious, but it felt less awkward to wait a beat before discussing the elephant in the room. “It’s much cozier with--”

“You shouldn’t’ve done that. It wasn’t… people will talk.”

John made a show of looking around the room. “People are already talking. But to be fair, they seem to do little else.”

“What you… said. It wasn’t wise, given my… Not that they know. However…” Sherlock swallowed hard, bit his lip, and began again. “People will get the wrong idea about us.

“Who says it’s the wrong idea?” John challenged, then giggled at the terror in his companion’s eyes. “Ok, clearly I’m not your type. Way to make a bloke feel wanted. All I mean is, it’s all fine. Let them think what they want. Doesn’t bother me,” he shrugged, turning to the flames and stretching.

***

“And?” John asked excitedly.

“And what?”

“The brother! Did he have a green ladder?” He was perched on the edge of his seat; this was the most interesting story he’d heard in ages.

“Obviously,” came the nonchalant response that would’ve been believable if not for the glint in Sherlock’s eye.

The Hufflepuff crashed backward into the honeycomb-colored sofa, exhausted and incredibly entertained. “Merlin, I’m beat. C...mon,” he yawned, standing and nodding toward the circular corridor to the bedrooms, “s’too noisy in here. Let’s go to my room for a bit.”

“W-why would we… I mean, we finished our session 24 minutes ago, there’s no need to--”

John snorted. “Twenty-four minutes. What’re you, a bloody alarm clock? I want to hear more about these cases you’ve figured out.”

“Deduced,” Sherlock corrected almost shyly. 

“Deduced, then,” the older boy allowed. “Either way. Let’s go.”

“People will most certainly talk,” the Slytherin hissed as he followed John into the second room on the right and sat gingerly on the same bed as his host. 

“Maybe we ought to give them something worth talking about,” John grinned, kicking off his trainers and lying back on top of the quilt. Taking in the return of his guest’s horror-struck expression, he giggled self-consciously. “Or maybe not. Alright,” he offered more seriously, dropping the black velvet curtains strung to the ceiling around his bed, “now no one will have to know you’re here. Make yourself comfortable and--” he yawned dramatically, crossing his legs at the ankle and closing his eyes, “tell me some more about these unsolved murders you’ve  _ deduced _ the answers to.”

The bed shifted as Sherlock folded his long limbs beneath him, and within a five minutes, his hushed baritone had sent John into a restful sleep.

***

“Mmm. Th’ppose, if you really want to, we could…” 

The seventh-year shook his head. The clock above his headboard read 1:29. He’d sworn he heard someone speaking. Looking down, he realized he was still fully clothed and his quilt had been kicked to the floor. Odd, that. Last he remembered, he’d been listening to--

“Otters, Jawn. Hedgehogs’ll… ‘ll give ‘em anything. Just like… mmm… mm… I’ll give you anything, but you can’t…”

A faint tapping at the tiny round window snapped John out of his contemplation of the rest of that sentence. He pulled back his bed curtains and squinted through the darkness to see a large, irritated eagle owl standing on the embankment just outside. When he swung the window open, it shoved its carrier leg at him unceremoniously and, the moment it was unburdened of its midnight correspondence, lifted silently into the night.

_ “Dearest Brother, _

_ I understand that you were once again involved in an incident with a fellow Slytherin. While Sally Donovan is, I assure you, on no one’s fast track, there are others watching whose opinions of you may yet prove valuable. Do not discount the importance of reputation, Sherlock. It has likewise come to my attention that you were saved total humiliation by one John Watson. He may possibly prove the making of you, Brother Mine. Or the unmaking. Take care which, especially given your… proclivities. _

_ With Sincerest Familial Regard, _

_ M” _

John was sure that, despite his own father’s distaste for the wizarding world, he had never read a family letter so cold. He scanned it again, making sure there was nothing Sherlock would miss, and buried it in his wastebasket. He didn’t deserve what had been thrown at him earlier that day -- and, apparently, on many days prior -- and he certainly wouldn’t benefit from reliving his victimization through his bullying sibling. Regardless of what the Ministry of Magic thought, Sherlock Holmes was a great tutor. More than that, he was becoming a friend, and somehow John was certain he’d make a good one.

Climbing back into bed, he pulled the quilt over both himself and his surprisingly welcome overnight partner, and let escape the thought that perhaps Sherlock’s proclivities were something he ought to consider more fully himself.


	7. Transfiguration: Nothing Ever Happens to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's admits something to himself.

**Chapter 7 | Transfiguration: Nothing Ever Happens to Me**

He sat wrapped in his winter cloak and a heavy green blanket, yet the chill found his exposed fingers, ears, and cheeks. Pre-dawn on the highest Astronomy tower. The cold had a small bite to it, but it didn’t deter Sherlock; instead, it was a substitute for the pain he was unable to cause-and-relieve since he’d stupidly destroyed his stash following his unanticipated and annoyingly effective healing session with John.

 _John._ He’d woken warm and relaxed beneath a quilt he suddenly realized was not his, and he’d forced himself, against every desire in his body, to sneak away before facing whatever the morning would bring. Now, alone above the world, he gritted his teeth against a gust of wind and opened to the marker in his emerald-toned book. The pages were covered in a printed description of the life of Salazar Slytherin -- an enchantment he’d worked himself to ensure that his secrets remained just that: secrets. Looking around one final time to ensure his total solitude, he tapped the page, muttering a well-rehearsed incantation under his breath, and loosened his grip to allow the book to transform into a sleek emerald-encrusted laptop in his hands. Resting it on his slim thighs within the partial cocoon of blanket, he shifted his entire body until the angle was just right to connect to the faint internet signal given off by a nearby Muggle train station. He sighed deeply, concentrating on the open page.

 

**The Science of Deduction**

**Home  Forum  Hidden Messages  | Case Files |**

**New Post Title:** **_The_ ** ~~**_Quidditch_**~~ **_Captain_ **

_Since my blog has no followers, likely due to the confusing nature of the posts for_ ~~_Muggles_~~ _those of average intelligence, I have determined that there is virtually no risk to using this as a venue to ponder a personal mystery, and one which I am loathe to attempt to solve, for what it may require me to admit of myself._

_I have… met someone. He is charming and well-liked, which is in no way surprising, given his genuinely positive disposition toward his fellow students. His athletic prowess earns him still more attention, particularly of the female variety -- and herein lies the crux of my dilemma. This person, this kind, generous, open-minded healer of hearts, is, by all accounts, heterosexual. And general opinion would suggest that he has been rather actively so. This fact, in and of itself, is not what causes my peculiar brand of emotional stress, however. It is that he, himself, has thrown the certainty of this fact into question. Just yesterday, he made a comment that hinted to a rather large number of people that we might be romantically linked. Once alone, he suggested not once, but twice, that we may as well act upon what others now suspected our association to be. He made clear that he was only joking, and while I doubt that not -- who would want me for a romantic partner, after all -- it did serve to kickstart a series of emotions from which I have been guarding myself and which I now find painfully unavoidable._

_In short: I believe I have a crush on one Captain John Watson._

 

Sherlock stared at the blinking cursor as the sun rose cold in the early winter sky, then pressed “post” before he lost his nerve. There. He had said it, if only to himself. He cast a shrinking charm over his blanket and cloak, tucked them into his leather bag, and transfigured his laptop back into the emerald tome, which he slid into an inner pocket of his school robe. It was absurd to suppose, despite John’s repeated suggestion, that his affections could be returned. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. When it came to romance, nothing ever happened to him.

* * *

Late that evening, carefully ensconced beneath his moss-colored blanket once again, Sherlock stared at the dim light of his computer screen. He’d had every intention of deleting his post, having realized that it was little more than a “dear diary” entry. But now…

 

**The Science of Deduction**

**Home  | Forum |  Hidden Messages Case Files**

**New forum post: Anonymous**

_You seem to assume a lot about this John Watson. (Is that really his name, by the way?) You assume he’s heterosexual. You assume he was joking about acting in private the way other people suspect you two act together. You assume he couldn’t be interested in you romantically. Have you ever thought that, maybe, you’re missing something?_

 

Sherlock’s heart raced. He had only ever had a few hits on his blog, and none in the past six months; how was it possible that this person had found it now, just when he had truly exposed himself? He couldn’t very well delete his earlier post now without risking further analysis, which left him just one option.

 

> **Sherlock Holmes**
> 
> _Yes, John Watson is his real name. There can be little harm in confirming that_ _since it is almost impossible for you to be connected. I assume John is_ _heterosexual because he has had a girlfriend. I assume he was joking because_ _he laughed after the fact. I assume he could not be interested in me_ _romantically because… because other than academic assistance, which he_ _already receives, I have nothing to offer him. Therefore, as much as I wish it_ _were true -- for the sake of my lonelier-than-usual heart -- no, I do not believe I am missing anything._

 

As Sherlock drifted to sleep that night, the traitorous nature of his sober mind came into stark relief as his reply to that anonymous post flashed on the insides of his eyelids. _I have nothing to offer him._ It was a kindness when sleep finally stole his consciousness, fresh tears still trickling down his face.

* * *

It had taken years to work out, but by the time John entered his fifth year at Hogwarts, he had perfected a spell to amplify the faint wireless network signal given off by the local station at the nearest Muggle town to Hogsmeade. When he opened his bed curtains just enough for a view of the window, he could access the internet on a smuggled mobile phone hidden in his broom cleaning kit. When he’d awoken the morning before to discover that his accidental bedmate had vanished in the night, he indulged his sudden urge to search for him on the web, and was not disappointed. This morning he sat, hands shaking, alternately chewing and licking his lips. The confession he held in his hands was heartbreaking, and yet… and yet strangely exhilarating. Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t the only one who’d missed something about John Watson after all.

He typed out a few quick words, fought the urge to obsess over each one, and dressed quickly for breakfast. There was class, Quidditch practice, and a Hogsmeade weekend coming. There was work to be done.


	8. History of Magic: What Might We Deduce About His Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go into Hogsmeade.

The northern November chill curled around Sherlock, an antagonistic forcefield surrounding his blanket, seeking entry at every minute gap and fold. As he stared at what his emerald book had become, and what that, in turn, now revealed, he lost all awareness of the temperature.

 

**The Science of Deduction**

**Home  | Forum |  Hidden Messages Case Files**

**Anonymous**

_The internet is an incredible tool. It lends distinction to strangers and anonymity to friends. And it so happens that you’re wrong about not missing anything: turns out you’re not the only one with a blog._

 

By his fourth attempt at working up the nerve to run a search, Sherlock had managed to type “John Wats” before slamming his laptop shut, cursing loudly into the icy dawn, and admitting defeat. He held his mind still as he slipped through the halls, ducking behind statues, careful not to bump any paintings with sleeping inhabitants, and finally slipped into his own dormitory, stealing through closed curtains to huddle deep under goose-down and chenille.

Only then, when even his thoughts were buried within a mind buried beneath thick blankets would he risk the thought that’d been plaguing him: he was afraid. Afraid the anonymous tip had been true. Afraid of what John might’ve said about him in his own blog. Or worse… afraid he’d said nothing. As Mycroft was quick to remind him, the only thing worse than being talked about, was not being talked about at all. And though he felt almost certain that this was not a situation to which his brother would apply that particular piece of wisdom (odd, he had expected to hear something from his unavoidable sibling regarding his tutoring client by now), he could not help but feel that the sentiment, for him, fit all too well.

He was due to meet with John that night in the library for their regular study session, though they had been taking place more and more frequently over meals in the Great Hall instead. Perhaps, depending on what he deduced about the older boy this evening, he would work up the nerve to risk the shred of self-esteem the Hufflepuff had graciously handed him. For now, he might as well knock out his recent homework assignments while the common room was empty.

* * *

John was still within earshot when the two Slytherin boys approached Sherlock at the table where they’d been studying.

“So level with us, Holmes. You and Watson -- it’s not what he made it seem, is it. No way you’d manage to hook up with someone like him.”

“Yeah,” the other began, “as if he’d pick you over that ginger ex-girl of his.” They both laughed, cruel but still slightly uncertain. “Go on, tell the truth then.”

“Oh, Sherlock! One more thing?” John shouted from where he stood two tables away, earning him a dirty look from Madam Tir, the librarian. He sauntered close enough to drop his voice, waving over another seventh-year Quidditch teammate in the process.

“John?” Sherlock asked, skillfully masking his nerves.

“Next time, stay for breakfast, yeah? Makes a guy question himself when you just pop off like that. Unless you’re just using me?”

“Come to think of it,” John’s Housemate chimed in, “I had wondered where you disappeared to when I didn’t see you that morning.”

“I’d never use you, John.” Far too much of the truth shone through Sherlock’s eyes, and he was powerless to stop it. “Of course I’ll stay until morning, if that’s what you want.”

“Good then. Tonight? I’ve got to run to practice, but say… nine o’clock at mine?”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting his own voice to remain steady given the tremendous grin spread across his features.

John beamed back, tapped his friend’s arm to signal their departure, and headed into the corridor without another word, leaving two stunned Slytherins in his wake.

* * *

“You have to go,” John whined again, as Sherlock’s socked toes kneaded his thigh in protest. “It’s the Yule Ball. It’s only one night, and it’ll be fun, I promise.”

“How could you possibly promise such a thing?” came the predictable response of the Hufflepuff common room sofa’s resident skeptic.

“I’ll be there!”

The fifth-year rolled his eyes and began standing up.

“Oh, come on… hey, where are you going?”

“If you _must_ know, I’m stopping in the toilet on my way out.”

A genuine frown clouded John’s face. “What d’you mean? You’re not staying?”

Sherlock’s lower lip dropped a fraction of an inch, caught on all the words he knew better than to say. Finally, he settled on, “You… meant that?”

“Well, yeah. ‘Course I meant it. What, do you think I just invite every bloke who helps me with Potions into my bed?” His straight face only lasted a few moments before Sherlock’s baffled expression caused him to burst into a fit of giggles. “Listen. I know it’s early, but I’m tired from practice. Mind if we turn in? You can tell me some more about your police case deductions. Besides--” he added at the indecision in the fifth-year’s shining green eyes, “tomorrow is Hogsmeade. We need to talk about shopping for the Yule Ball, because if you think I’m letting you out of it, you’re just plain wrong.”

***

John lay on his right side -- his left shoulder always acted up in the winter for some reason -- closing his eyes to avoid staring awkwardly at the side of Sherlock’s neck. It was cozy like this, warm and somehow safe. He could hear rhythmic breathing; the scents of bergamot and ginger and wool mingled into an exciting and soothing blend. A leg brushed his. A whispered apology.

“I don’t mind…” John returned, drifting into a dreamless sleep, “anytime.”

* * *

“Sher...lo…” John trailed off, yawning. “You’re already dressed.” He blinked up at the rather distinguished figure seated on the end of his bed and realized his friend must’ve snuck off in the early hours to fetch his clothing for the day and come back.  _ He’d come back _ . The thought made John happier than he knew it should, and he cast his brightest groggy smile up at his companion. “Guess I’ll just…” he pointed in the direction of the bedroom door, pulling back the curtains surrounding them. 

“Good morning, gentlemen!” Mike Stamford, the Hufflepuff from the library, seemed particularly glad to see them together. “Appreciate you keeping it down in there,” he added, winking.

“Oh-h,” Sherlock stammered. “We w-weren’t…”

“‘S’ok, mate, no judgement here,” Mike returned, pulling on a jumper that made him look like a giant wingless bumblebee. “You two’re happy -- and quiet -- I’m happy. So then, if John’s about ready? Right, breakfast! Shall we?”

The three of them made their way to the Great Hall, Mike chattering most of the way, and Sherlock, to his own surprise, rather enjoying the company. As they entered the large room, several students at the Slytherin table, including Sally Donovan, glared suspiciously in their direction. John, almost instinctively, laid a hand firmly on Sherlock’s lower back and steered him to his own table. 

Emboldened by his tutor’s casual acceptance, he found himself making excuses to touch him until they were entering the village an hour later. When he noticed the younger boy’s gaze wandering toward the route that lead to the Hog’s Head, he reigned himself in, suddenly focused on providing a suitable alternative.

“Three Broomsticks, then?”

“Hmm,” came a small grumble, “rather not. Too crowded, too dull.”

“Alright then, let’s get to shopping for the Yule Ball.”

“On second thought, a nice pint of butterbeer would be rather satisfying right about--”

“Nice try. I’ve got dress robes, assume you have them already, too? Then what about a haircut? You look like you… could…”

Sherlock looked utterly scandalized. Perhaps he uses some spell, John supposed, desperately wanting to avoid offending his exotic orange-scented bedmate. 

“Well I could use one, at any rate. Come along, will you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but followed readily enough as John made his was to the wizard barber, who, despite using a somewhat rudimentary process, made short order and clean work of an almost military cut. John could’ve sworn he’d seen Sherlock’s pupils dilate when he asked how he looked, but he wasn’t sure what that meant, so he lead the way to the next shop.

“Florist,” John explained as they strolled down a side lane filled with enchanted gardens, impervious to the frost now permanently settled over the area. 

A windchime gave off a Christmasy tinkling sound as they entered a small lilac-walled shop, where a dark haired witch sailed out from behind the counter. 

“Greetings, I’m Callalily, how may I help you boys today? Preparing for the Yule Ball?”

John nodded, and she floated to a set of chilled shelves. 

“This is our collection of corsages. On this second shelf, you’ll find this season’s most highly sought after--”

“Er, we…” John interjected, “we’re not… looking for…”

“Oh! Of course! Silly me!” Callalily clapped one hand lightly over her mouth and headed for the back wall of the shop. “Here is our best selection of boutonnieres. If you’d like something matching, we can arrange a second of any of these and have it sent up to the school. Please take your time, and let me know if you need any help, dears.”

As John lifted two flowers to compare colors, Sherlock hissed in his ear, “Why are we selecting boutonnieres? Aren’t you supposed to buy flowers for your date?”

“Obviously,” John replied in a mock posh accent, earning him a hilariously disgusted glare. “Yes, Sherlock. We buy flowers for our dates. And since girls ‘aren’t your area,’ you’ll need one of these.”

“I do not know why I must remind you of this, but I do not have a date, nor do I intend to ask anyone. And secondly, why are  _ you _ buying a boutonniere?”

“In case my date doesn’t get me one. Here, look. You buy this silver one, it’ll match your dress robes I’m sure. I’ll take this honey-colored set. We’ll keep both of them in my room, and if we end up needing them…” he shrugged, an easy smile never leaving his lips. “Pardon me, Callalily? We’ll take these.”

They paid and walked back onto the main road in silence -- John’s amicable and Sherlock’s stroppy. Just as the fifth-year was about to give in and suggest a pint, he was surprised by John’s sudden declaration that he could do with a cup of tea. As they entered Madam Puddifoot’s, all eyes were, at least momentarily, on them. Still, John’s grin never ceased.

“You’re not really miserable,” he prodded after they’d ordered. “You just don’t want to admit that this isn’t so bad, and that you’re starting to look forward to the Ball after all.”

“I assure you, there is nothing about the Yule Ball about which I am excited. Not least of all because I have no intention of going.”

“Is this all because you don’t have a date? Because obviously, you do.”

“John,” he sighed, “Molly is a lovely girl, but even if I were to pretend--”

“Amazing, Sher. For all your brilliant ability at deductions, there are still things you can’t see.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he stared at John while the other thanked their host for the newly arrived Earl Grey. 

“Do I really have to spell it out, then? You’ve come to my Quidditch match, you’ve eaten dinner with me, you’ve spent the night -- hell, you’ve just bought me a boutonniere. Sherlock Holmes, your date for the Yule Ball is me.”


	9. Duelling Club: A War We Must Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reads John's blog.

Sherlock had sat, staring at the centerpiece of the table, for several minutes before John took pity on him and changed the subject. They hadn’t discussed the Yule Ball, or any of it, again for the remainder of the trip. When they reached the main entrance of the castle that afternoon, John had excused himself to work out Quidditch plays, allowing his date-to-be an easy escape. Now the fifth-year sat brooding over an unfinished essay and utterly unaware of what he was writing. What did it matter, he would still pull top marks -- he was too far beyond textbook knowledge to be worried over something like that. 

His real concern, mounting now by the minute, was this impending social event, the potential expectations of his fake boyfriend, and his own dubious ability to maintain his calm in the face of nights spent in the same bed with his… crush? That term was fast becoming inadequate. If only he had some way of seeing what was in John’s heart, of knowing, with certainty, how he really felt. If only the other boy were so foolish as to keep a…

“Obviously!” he chided himself, and set a mental alarm for midnight.

***

**The Personal Blog of John H. Watson**

**18th November**

> **Hogsmeade Heaven**
> 
> _ Had the best trip into the village with Sherlock today. His eyes are always green when he’s happy. Or at least, when he’s looking at me. Not sure if I’m imagining the connection. I hope not. _

**16th November**

**My Boyfriend, the Boffin**

> _ Ok, he’s not actually my boyfriend, though he is actually rather the boffin. After what I’d said to Sally Donovan in the corridors, something just kind of clicked. And then with those damn Slytherins (no offense, Sherlock), I couldn’t resist. Funny thing is, I didn’t plan it. I just sort of said what I said all those times, which I can’t pretend isn’t making me wonder. Anyway, he’s playing along, but only in public. Is it odd that it makes me feel a bit… disappointed? _

**15th November**

> **Potions, and Other Things That Are Beyond Me**
> 
> _ What I wouldn’t give to understand him. Sherlock Holmes, that is. Just when I think he’s letting me in, when I think our friendship is opening doors, or turning corners, or whatever the phrase is… he shuts down again. “No entry” sign written clear across his face. I don’t think anyone knows him, and he acts as though he likes it that way. I’m here to tell you -- he doesn’t. You’re not fooling me, Sherlock. And one of these days, I’ll slip past the guards, mark my words. _

***

**The Science of Deduction**

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**The Captain**

_ [...] _

_ He knows the color of my eyes when I’m happy, or looking at him. He is, apparently, my intended date to this Yule Ball, should I choose to attend. He has, in fact, been playing at a fake relationship between us, ostensibly to raise my social profile (for entirely selfless purposes, it would seem). He has an ex-girlfriend.  _

_ Preliminary Conclusion: John Watson is -- by choice --  _ _ my first _ _ a proper friend.  _

_ Question: How does one dress to attend a ball with one’s heterosexual fake boyfriend? _

 

Sherlock reached for his wand, prepared to call it an early night, when the corner of the screen flashed. With a slight trembling of his right index finger, he clicked onto the Forum.

 

> **Anonymous**
> 
> _ Much closer, it seems. Though I’d wager you’re still missing something. Oh… and obviously: dark grey and pale green.  _

 

Sherlock swore to himself repeatedly on the stealthy walk back to his dormitory, where he lay awake another two and a half hours mentally reviewing the contents of his wardrobe.

* * *

The weeks went by more and more quickly, revision and exams encroaching on most of Sherlock and John’s time together. While this unquestionably came as a relief to the fifth-year, he couldn’t but notice his increasing agitation. He fought against the development of nervous tics, he resolutely battled the psychological pull of his old habit, and he missed the awkward warmth of those nights, finding himself asleep under John’s quilt.

Now, with only a few exams left, they were to be found in the library, at their usual table, studying Potions side by side rather than together. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a bored huff, and slammed his textbook shut. John glanced up startled, then chuckled and stretched.

“Break time, then?”

“I’m done for the evening,” he countered, shoving his books and notes back into his satchel. “You go on, if you like.”

“Nah, my brain’s taken in as much as it’s likely to. C’mon, let’s head back to mine, I’ve got a few butterbeers put away.” Sherlock simply blinked as John haphazardly tossed his books into his bag, turned from the table, and bounded out into the corridor, clearly unaware that he was alone until the younger boy came striding purposefully to his side.

“By ‘back to yours,’ you, of course, mean…?”

“Hufflepuff common room. Oh,” John saw the tense bob of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, “that. Right. You haven’t been… I assumed you didn’t…”

“I don’t! I mean, not ‘I don’t’ -- I just didn’t intend…”

“Listen, Sherlock. We’re in the middle of exams, you don’t have to explain, yeah? You don’t have to stay over.”

“Right, ok,” he answered, looking relieved and feeling anything but.

* * *

With only one day of exams remaining, even the morning post delivery teemed with an anxious excitement. Except for the Holmes’ eagle owl, which landed with a heavy disinterested thud on the oak table, displacing Sherlock’s breakfast sausages onto his lap. It dropped its burden, stole a croissant, and exited as it had come. Sherlock removed the note from the affixed package:  _ Saturday evening. Ball starts at 8. Meet me in the Great Hall at 10 past? -- JW _


	10. Arithmancy: The Dancing Man Code, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson attends the Yule Ball.

Glittering candlelight reflected off enchanted snowflakes, giant silver bells created an undercurrent of sweet sound, and twelve enormous trees trimmed with glass and tinsel, greeted each new couple arriving to the Yule Ball. And yet, for John Watson, the Great Hall seemed to grow colder with every person he watched cross the threshold. In truth, he wasn’t certain his date would turn up. 

He examined the incoming pairs, particularly the girls, with a detached interest he was never capable of in the past. Many of them resembled the frosted desserts and gilded bows lining the tables around the edge of the room. Others, he found no less attractive than he always had. And yet… and yet he found his mind focused on only one person.

John glanced up from his punch and did a double take: there he was. Sherlock Holmes. Charcoal grey silk robes, jade satin trim, and the greenest eyes he had ever seen. The seventh-year’s mouth ran dry, and he could do nothing but stare, mouth agape, as auburn-tinted raven curls bounced ever so lightly against an ivory temple.  _ A temple, indeed _ , John thought, not grinning this time, as the emotion behind his thoughts was finally made entirely clear to him. Sherlock was the temple; he was the idol. Simply put: he was beautiful. 

The older boy barely heard his date’s greeting. He felt his tongue trip over an offer to get him punch, felt his hand slip as he placed his own glass upon a nearby table. A voice that sounded like his own but deeper, much deeper, suggested that they dance. The band was only a few bars into a waltz, and as he wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist, he suddenly found himself being swept backward in perfect time to the music. After tripping twice, he finally made apologetic eye contact -- and was locked firmly into the hold of dazzling irises whose shade somehow matched both the jade on his robes and the silver of the boutonniere. The boutonniere John had selected for him. And now John knew why he’d done it. He really knew. 

Time stopped for John Watson, there on the dancefloor. Every dance was a waltz to him, every beat finding the courage to pull his arm tighter around a slim back -- one strong enough to guide him without hesitation, pliable enough to adjust automatically to his changing grip, fragile enough to feel, beneath trained athlete’s hands, as though it could collapse under the weight of some unseen force.

There, suddenly, around Sherlock’s shoulder, he saw Sarah. Radiant in a deep pink which offset her red hair, and glaring at him as though he had bewitched her cat. Her irritation only appeared to grow with the grin spreading across his own face as he realized: it wasn’t her, and it never would be again.

They danced, they laughed, they ate. For John Watson, the entire evening consisted of only the parts of the world that were graced by Sherlock Holmes’ smile, by his wit, by his utterly transfixing gaze. 

And then, time sped up.

They were walking, hand-in-hand, out of the Great Hall, down chilly corridors and stairs leading to the dungeons. John’s thumb was stroking Sherlock’s palm, and though he was shocked by his own boldness, now that the truth had settled upon him, he could hardly bring himself to stop. And what was more, despite their rapid approach to the sliding wall that provided entry to the Slytherin common room, Sherlock had not pulled away in the slightest. 

The taller of the two spoke the password in a rich, dark voice, that made John tremble, then, as the door slid open, stepped aside. Surprised at his courage, alone in the dancing firelight of the ancient sconces, John edged his companion back against a wall...


	11. Arithmancy: The Dancing Man Code, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes attends the Yule Ball.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was awash with stars, all of which were dimmed by the light of a thousand fairies in shining robes reflecting the golden glow of a thousand candles. The atmosphere in the vaulted space was strangely close; warm yellow-lit walls created an effect not unlike the Hufflepuff common room on a larger scale, and the fifth-year found it calmly and oddly exhilarating.

His eyes roved over crisp linens on scattered cocktail tables, blue and purple orbs hovering on tree limbs, and a growing crowd of students who, somehow, managed to all look the same. 

Sherlock spotted John immediately. Warm, dark amber robes set off by the bright honey-yellow of the boutonniere that he hadn’t realized he’d purchased. The way it seemed to radiate the light from John’s smile in the moments before he was noticed… Sherlock would buy him one every day of the year to produce that effect. The way his lips parted, tongue darting out to lick at pale pink while twilight blue eyes shone his own awe back at him. Simply put: he was beautiful. 

The younger boy mumbled something that he hoped would pass for a greeting, nervously declining the offer of punch and cursing himself inwardly for jostling John’s arm as he set down his cup. His date’s voice dropped a curious and tinglingly attractive octave as he suggested that they dance. The band was only a few bars into a waltz, which came as a great relief, as Sherlock was able to lead them in time despite his brain going functionally offline as John slid a strong arm around his waist. Swallowing hard at the intoxicating scent of eucalyptus and just the faintest hint of fire whiskey, Sherlock tightened his grip as John tripped for the second time. Their eyes met unexpectedly, and it was as though fiendfire were running through his veins. He wondered whether this spell that was John Watson could ever be extinguished from his heart. 

His date held him closer, closer, each song, each dance, brought their bodies more fully into contact. It was far too much and not nearly enough. It was as though the room was spinning madly around them and all Sherlock could do was hold on, there in the center, to the one steady image: John. It was always John. 

Then suddenly, they were moving in slow motion. 

They were walking, hand-in-hand, out of the Great Hall, down chilly corridors and stairs leading to the dungeons. Sherlock felt John’s thumb tracing circles on his palm, and his desperation to not know this was all an act on his date’s part meant he could not risk anything but reveling in the sensation in the moment it was offered. 

As they reached the hidden Slytherin common room entrance, Sherlock spoke the password crisply, despairing of the end of the most enjoyable night of his life. Then, as the door slid open, he stepped aside to allow John the space needed to say his farewell. But there, alone in the dancing firelight of the ancient sconces, his companion edged him back against a wall, stepping impossibly close into Sherlock’s space.

John’s voice was a low, husky whisper, his breath ghosting against Sherlock’s lips.

“I’m glad you said yes.”

“Technically, you never asked.”

“I haven’t yet.” He enunciated the final word before his mouth grazed, dry, hot, possessive, over Sherlock’s. John leaned back, running his fingertips down the length of Sherlock’s arm as he stepped away, grinning. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” the Slytherin finally managed when his date had made it halfway down the corridor. His date. Or was he now…


	12. Astronomy: The Sun Goes ‘Round The Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the Yule Ball.

John had woken early. He bathed, dressed, and practically ran down the corridor to breakfast. Term was over -- finally! -- and the trains would depart from Hogsmeade Station for London in just a few hours. He refused to wallow in his disappointment after the perfect evening just past, which ended in a kiss that shot firewhiskey straight into his veins and sent him reeling into a night filled with dreams of dancing, kissing, and --

“Watson!”

“Stamford!” he called cheerfully, returning from his reverie as his friend clapped him on the back. “Going home for the holiday?”

“Can’t wait; no one makes a mince pie like my mum.”

John smiled as Mike continued to talk about his family traditions over breakfast sausage, though he couldn’t be less interested. There was only one person whose holiday he cared to hear about, only one farewell he needed to make. He watched, heart pounding, for a new arrival at the table nearest the Hall entrance. He stared.

 

And stared.

 

And stared.

Slytherins came and went, handshakes and hugs were exchanged, but there was no sign at all of Sherlock Holmes. When it seemed that most of the school had eaten and departed, John began to panic. The thought that he had missed him, or worse -- that Sherlock had had a change of heart -- caused an unpleasant tightness in his chest. He knew he couldn’t spend two weeks wondering without driving himself completely mad, and so, ridiculous as it may be, there was only one thing for it.

With a final farewell to Stamford, John walked briskly out of the Great Hall, down echoing stone steps into the cooler air of the dungeons, and marched with far more confidence than he felt to the wall where, last night, he and Sherlock had shared their first kiss.

“Felix Felicis,” he spoke clearly, relieved to find that the password had not yet been reset, and wandered into the Slytherin common room. Taking in the eerie glow of the lake water through the windows, it occurred to him that he had never been there in his six and a half years at Hogwarts. Though, why would he. He had never been close enough to a Slytherin to be --

“I’m sorry. I should’ve invited you in.”

John whirled around as though he had been engaged in something underhanded and caught out. “Sherlock,” he breathed, surprise mingled with gratitude that he hadn’t missed the opportunity to…

The fifth-year stood, arms wrapped around his slender torso, in a thick green jumper and House pajama bottoms. He wore no socks, and the toes of his right foot were self-consciously curled toward the carpet.

“Last night,” Sherlock continued, not quite making eye contact, “I should’ve… you know,” he nodded toward a corridor that no doubt led to the bedrooms. “It’s just… I wasn’t thinking, and I…”

“I don’t care about that. You didn’t need to…” John bit his lips as his smile returned. “Anyway, I just came to say goodbye. You never came to breakfast, and I was afraid to miss you,” he confessed, glancing, for a moment, at his own hands.

“Yes, well I thought perhaps you’d prefer to avoid… that is, with everyone in the Hall, and after we were seen together last night… what I mean to say is,” he inhaled deeply to steady himself. “What time does your train leave?”

“My train? I’m not… I came to wish _you_ a safe journey. Why… why aren’t you dressed?”

“Why would I be dressed?”

“For the train trip home,” John explained dumbly.

“John. I… am not. Going home. Wait…”

“Wait, you’re staying? We’re both staying?”

Sherlock’s face broke into a wild grin, while something flashed in John’s eyes that could only be described as predatory.

“In that case, I understand why you’re not dressed. But what I don’t understand is why I still am…”

In seconds, he was threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and his tongue through his lips,  walking him backward toward an enormous, stately, pine-colored sofa and pushing him into a prone position with nothing more than the ravenous pressure of his mouth. He held himself over the slim body beneath his own, knees to either side of Sherlock’s thighs, lips practically attacking the plush cupid’s bow on offer until they were both panting too hard to continue. John rested their foreheads together and laughed lightly.

Sherlock spoke nervously, “So… in fact… this would mean I’m your…”

“Boyfriend?” John supplied. “Better be, or I really ought not be kissing you like this.” He giggled a bit at his own boldness, the infectious sound causing Sherlock to join. Laughter bubbled up over the edges of the sofa and filled the quiet common room until a voice -- Sally Donovan -- cut through like a knife.

“Best be getting a room then.” She was standing at one end of the sofa, trunk at her feet, glaring disapprovingly down at the pair of them.

“In fact,” John sat up and looked her in the eye, his shoulders squaring, “that is the bloody best idea I’ve heard in ages. Sherlock?” he turned only part way, to ensure Sally could still see him, and winked. “Yours free?”

“All clear,” he confirmed, a mix of uncertainty and hope in his eyes.

Sally let out a disgusted huff and waved her wand at her trunk, letting it precede her hastily out of the room.

“C’mon then.” The seventh-year reached down a hand to help the other up, then ran his fingertips down his arm as he’d done the night before, this time entwining their fingers rather than walking away. “Something tells me two weeks isn’t much time.”

John’s lead was overtaken by Sherlock as he followed the fifth-year to his bedroom, which had been freed of its last cohabitant minutes before John’s arrival. The older boy kicked his trainers off and threw himself backwards onto the disheveled duvet in imitation of how he typically fell onto his own bed, pulling Sherlock down on top of him with a stage whispered, “Come here, you.”

Since Sherlock held himself above his partner the way John had just moments before, the Hufflepuff propped himself on his elbows to close the distance for a tantalizingly chaste, yet lingering, kiss.

“John.”

“Mmm?” he hummed, running closed lips along a sharp jawline.

“John, I need to… I think you… ought to know something.”

John’s hands wrapped around jutting hipbones, slid up an arrow-straight spine, as his mouth found the spot just behind Sherlock’s ear. “Mmm’n what’s’at, Sher?”

“I…” he let out a quivering breathe, desperately trying to block out the overwhelming sensations, “I’ve never… done… this. Anything. With… w-with anyone.”

“Mmm…” John wrapped his arms tighter, drawing Sherlock down against him, his legs on either side of that impossibly lithe body. “Good, neither’ve I.”

Sherlock stiffened, and pushed himself back up on his arms to look John in the eye. “You… don’t understand. I haven’t… done _anything._ I mean…” his face was beet red, “not _anything_.”

“I understand perfectly, and like I said: neither have I.” John examined the skeptical look on his new boyfriend’s face and had to bite back a giggle. “Listen, ok. Yes, I know I have a bit of a reputation. But it’s unearned. Sarah’s the only one I was ever close enough to, to have… and we didn’t. Not anything. At all. I guess somehow it just never felt… right.”

Stormcloud grey eyes searched John’s face for something, anything, that might answer the question he couldn’t articulate.

“Yes, Sherlock. This…” he shrugged, “feels right. I trust you. It isn’t logical, it’s just... true.”

“Then what do you… I mean. How… do you… want...”

“Honestly?” John looked up sheepishly, chewing his lower lip. “Like… well, like _this_.”

Sherlock looked confused for a moment, and then his eyes grew wide. “Oh. OH!”

His mouth formed such a perfect circle that John couldn’t help leaning up for another playful kiss. When he settled back onto the pillow, he was suddenly nervous; he realized how he’d just exposed himself, and wasn’t sure what Sherlock really thought.

“W-would you tell me… what it is… you want? Please?”

A new look came over the Slytherin, his eyes darkening, face flushing with a heat quite other than embarrassment. John shivered, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Please.”

Sherlock’s gaze roved over the figure beneath him for a moment, then he sank his face slowly downward until the tip of his nose grazed John’s ear.

“I want this, too. I want to feel myself against you,” he hissed, pressing his hips down, “feel myself hard against you. I want to feel you opening yourself to me…” his hand slid down John’s Muggle button-down, palm flat to feel the ripple of athletic muscle beneath, until it slipped around the outside of his thigh and lifted. The other leg complied automatically, socked feet coming to rest flat against the bed, with Sherlock settled within the V of his legs. “I want to feel you _here._ ” He ran two fingers across the place where John’s entrance was hidden beneath layers of fabric that were no longer disguising his intense interest in these plans. Sherlock began circling his fingertips, pressing gently. “I want to feel you from the inside, taking me, surrounding me, yielding to me until you’re ready for me to…” he rolled his hips and--

“OH Merlin FUCK SHERLOCK, hhhhnnggggggawd!” John threw his head back forcefully, thrusting his hips three times hard up into his partner as he came, eyes shut and grasping at Sherlock’s knit jumper. As his breath gradually slowed, his eyes remained shut, and blood pooled in his cheeks.

“My… Sherlock, I’m s-so sorry, I…” John looked as though tears might start forming behind his lids as Sherlock leaned down again and nibbled gently on his earlobe.

“John Watson,” he whispered, “I have never even imagined anything that sexy. Would you be interested… I mean, would it be ok if we…”

“Sher?”

“Can we… switch?”


	13. Defense Against the Dark Arts: It Protects Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reveals his plans for the future.

“How long do we have to lie like this, John?” he yawned the next morning. He had awoken with a toned chaser’s arm wrapped under his, hand resting possessively on his bare chest, and the other tucked beneath his neck. For the first half hour, Sherlock had run his fingers along fine blonde hairs and repeatedly threaded their fingers together. But even in the throes of love -- if not passion, as they’d kept the rest of their exploration above the waist -- he was growing restless.

John nuzzled his nose into messy, sweet-smelling curls. “Mmm, forever? C’mon, s’nice this.”

“It was nice, yes. But we haven’t left my bed in 22 hours. John, are you listening? Jawn!” he whined, as his boyfriend inched lower, peppering his spine with kisses.

“Mhm. Bed. 22 hours.”

“Jawwwn. I’m hungry!”

John stopped at that, releasing Sherlock enough to allow him to roll onto his back before caging him in from above. “So’m I. But I have a solution to that that doesn’t involve going anywhere.” He grinned widely, placing his lips in the center of a pale chest and working his way quickly downward until he slipped a fingertip beneath the band of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and raised an eyebrow.

“John, quit taking the piss.”

“Who’s taking the piss?” He tugged slowly, cautiously, until jutting hipbones were revealed. He bit down on the left one gently.

“John, stop.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No… don’t think so…”

He gripped the outside of Sherlock’s thighs, coaxing them up and back as he sank further down, beneath the duvet.

“John?” A nervous edge crept into the baritone. “What’re you…?”

“I told you,” came the muffled reply as pajama bottoms were tugged almost to mid-thigh in one swift movement, “I’m hungry too.”

“Y-you… can’t mean… John? Jo-OH!” Sherlock threw his head back onto the pillow as what could only be the warm wetness of John Watson’s flattened tongue began lapping teasingly against him, pushing into his body ever so slightly on each pass. 

“John… d-don’t…” he muttered weakly as broom-calloused hands pulled him, spread him open to what he could only imagine was the full view of-- “s-stop, John. D-don’t… stop… please. Please don’t stop. Don’t stop!” That clever tongue became sharper, swirling around the center of his virginity, dipping inside a little deeper, a little deeper, the lack of a discernible pattern driving him mad. “Don’t stop, John, please! I… I need… I -- OH OH!” He inhaled sharply as a single digit, somehow already lubricated, pushed deep inside of him. 

And there, smiling down at him suddenly, was John. John, who was pushing-pulling-twisting in and out of him. John, whose honey-colored pants were brushing against his own unclothed erection. John, who was pushing, grinding, and staring him in the eye as he spoke loudly.

“I want to feel myself, hard, against you. I want to touch you, here…” The pad of his finger swiped across a bundle of oh-so-sensitive nerves, at which Sherlock gasped hard, arching fiercely off the bed. “I want to take you apart, Sherlock Holmes. I want you to be mine, and only mine!” He punctuated the last word with another, firmer press against that perfect prostate and watched, open-mouthed, as Sherlock screamed with pleasure, long white spurts of come utterly wrecking his dark green linens. 

“Fuck, Sherlock!” John’s shout mingled with Sherlock’s as he pumped himself vigorously with the hand that had so lately been occupied between the legs of his lover. “Fuck, yes… yes, you’re so fucking gorgeous… I… I… yeeesssssss!”

He collapsed onto his elbows, panting and laughing lightly at his own enthusiasm, especially considering how recently he had realized he wasn’t only interested in girls. Before he caught his breath, he looked down -- and fell onto Sherlock’s shoulder in a fit of giggles. 

Sherlock, whose eyelashes were rather heavily decorated with the results of John’s attentions, did not find it nearly as amusing.

* * *

“John,” the fifth-year began, swirling his porridge around in its bowl. “Can I… ask you something?”

“‘Course, Sher. After  _ that, _ anything,” he replied playfully.

“Are we… what you said. About wanting to be… mine. Did you…”

“Mean it? Sherlock,” he sighed sweetly, lifting his boyfriend’s free palm to his lips, “yes. Yes, I meant it. Why would I want to be with anyone else when I have you? Assuming… you also…”

“Yes! I mean, yes. Of course, I do. Am.” He shook his head, finally lifting his gaze from his breakfast. “I just wasn’t sure if… when term starts again, I could understand if you wanted to…”

“Just a minute, Sher. Can I help you?” John had turned to face three of the students nearby, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors he suspected, though it was hard to be certain with the Houses at a mixed bench for the holiday. 

“Well, yeah, Watson, if you’re offering. Quite a tender little display you’ve got going there, and we were just wondering--”

“What’s going on between Holmes and me? Whether we’re just shagging over break?”

One of the Ravenclaws turned rather pink, but none of them looked away. 

“Right then. No, we’re not.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly, and John caught his hand before it disappeared over the edge of the table.

“He’s my boyfriend, so we’ll be shagging during term, too. That answer your question?”

“Yeah,” the Gryffindor boy coughed, “yeah, alright. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Now, Sherlock,” John turned back, beaming, “what was it you wanted to know?”

“Quidditch, John,” he returned, face almost splitting with happiness, “could you teach me a bit?”

* * *

“You need to pass your Potions N.E.W.T.” 

They had been wrapped in a thick silence, warm and comfortable beneath a green chenille throw, on a pile of cushions before the Slytherin fire. 

“Obvious,” John said in a mocking -- but quite good -- imitation of Sherlock’s accent. The younger boy just rolled his eyes.

“That’s all you’ve told me, though. I don’t know what you’re doing, what you hope to do, when you… when you leave.”

“I’m leaving school, Sher. Not you.”

“I know, I’m simply saying--”

“Not you, Sherlock.” John settled deeper against his taller boyfriend’s thin, yet welcoming, shoulder. “But ok. You want to know what I’m planning, or at least, hoping, for my future. Fair enough, though I’ve only discussed it with Papa--” Sherlock cringed. “ _ Professor _ Lestrade.”

Sherlock shifted so that John was sitting centered between his knees, head resting back against his chest. The younger boy let the side of his chin sit atop golden hair, which caught in the dark auburn stubble Sherlock had collected over the past week. John, who insisted on shaving daily himself, said it suited him. 

“My future…” John began again. “Well, my first few years here, when I was still starstruck over the entire existence of witches and wizards, I dreamed of being selected for a professional Quidditch team. Since then, I’ve studied the sport -- history and modern statistics, not just tactics -- and I came to accept that it wasn’t going to happen for me. I love it though, I really do. So I turned my passion into a plan for the next best thing: sports healing. See, teams always need Healers and they get to be at training and all the games, even abroad.”

“So you would travel frequently.”

“Well… yeah. Every few weeks, I suppose. But only during the season,” he added quickly. 

“And during the… off-season? You’d be based…”

“Wherever the team is… yeah…” John’s change in tone indicated that he had just understood the real question. “I doubt I’ll get all the marks I need, though. Becoming a Healer is challenging, only the best are selected, and I’m--”

“You’re one of them, John. You are. Especially with my help.” Sherlock stood. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah… ok.” John followed him into the corridor off the common room, waving his wand behind him to arrange the space they had occupied. Neither of them noticed the corner of the fire, where a tweed-clad elbow was just visible through the flames.

***

Both of them tossed and turned, one feeling too guilty to embrace, the other feeling further rejected by the lack of contact. Eventually, John broke the silence with a long, sad sigh. 

Sherlock gathered his courage and spoke. “What do you know of my family?”

“Just what everyone knows. Old wizarding family, mother, father, three brothers. Rumors of a Death Eater or two, but mainly just known as a bunch of posh Slytherins.”

“And what do you know about my brothers and me?”

“You’re the youngest. Mycroft is middle; he would’ve left Hogwarts the year before you entered, yeah? I was in second year when he was in seventh. Seem to remember he was a Prefect, maybe.”

“Head boy. But go on.”

“He was known for always siding with the teachers. They called him ‘Percy’ behind his back, though I never quite understood why.”

“Irrelevant. And what about the eldest? Therrin-- Sherrinford. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing. Wasn’t at school with him, assume he’s at least a few years older than Mycroft. It’s rumored he made up that zebra joke, so I suspect he had a reputation as a bit of a joker.”

“Not quite. Sherrinford Holmes was -- is, normal. Intelligent, yes, but not a genius. He is kind, funny, makes friends easily. He is everything Mycroft despises and everything I… am not.”

“Sher, that’s not tr--”

“Please, John. I’m… Sherrinford lives in London with his wife. She is a Muggle, though she has been informed quite thoroughly of my brother’s magical nature. Indeed, he uses magic quite freely in front of her, as they hope to have children one day, who may themselves be witches or wizards. 

Sherrinford’s -- shall we call them, life choices -- are a source of great disrepute amongst my parents’ social circles, and it is only the ancient unbroken line of magical stock which allows them to continue in the lifestyle into which they were born. One day, upon their death, he will inherit the family estate in Sussex. Regardless of their feelings for him, I cannot imagine any choice that would overpower their need to maintain tradition.

I speak with my brother on occasion and he has assured me privately that, once it comes into his possession, he will be passing down the ancestral home to me.”

“Wow, Sherlock, that’s fantastic!”

“So you see, John, whatever direction you choose, I will be taken care of.”

John lay still for a moment, then slowly sat upright, leaning over a prone figure who suddenly looked so small in the dark. He carefully reached out a hand and brushed a few curls off Sherlock’s forehead. 

“You’ve got it wrong, Sherlock Holmes. I don’t worry about you.”

“Oh, well, then I’m sorry I wasted--”

“I don’t worry about you. I want you.” John lowered himself onto his right shoulder, his lips settling against the side of Sherlock’s shoulder, his left hand protecting an all-too-fragile heart.

***

A sudden weight on his leg woke John an hour later. How the eagle owl had found its way into the dungeon bedroom, he couldn’t fathom, but he accepted the proffered envelope nevertheless and watched as the large bird soared noiselessly down the hall. 

 

**John H. Watson**

**Slytherin Fifth-year Dormitory**

**Where He Most Certainly Does Not Reside**

_ It has come to my attention through certain channels that you, John Watson, are dating my brother, Sherlock, and that you have promised not to leave him, despite the fact that you are planning a career which would necessitate that you do exactly that. My little brother and I may have our differences, but he is family, and family must take care of one another. I am sure you understand that. Therefore, John, I ask this: if you aim to break Sherlock’s heart, let it be both swift and soon. You are a chaser, yet you have caught a snitch. And if you should destroy it, consider me a world-renowned beater. Time to choose a side, Captain Watson. _

_ M _

 

John turned his head and let his eyes run over the person beside him. Vulnerable, untrusting, and his. He slid out of the bed carefully, grateful upon his arrival in the common room to find the fire remained lit. He threw the letter into the flames and watched every fiber of it burn. Choosing a side was easy. It was being chosen that presented the challenge.


	14. Divination: I Never Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas

The old heater in the locker room only had enough life in it to warm the square meter immediately surrounding it. It was there that John paced a miniscule circuit, waiting what felt like ages for Sherlock to finish dressing. His boyfriend had brought a button-down, a blazer, and a pair of jeans that would easily run 300 quid in London; what could take so bloody long to put them on, especially in this cold, the seventh-year truly could not guess.

When he was finally ready, they both pulled on heavy boots and trudged back up through the snow toward the castle.

“So? Wha’d’ya think?” John queried about their morning adventure. Despite living his entire life in the wizarding world, Sherlock had never once attempted to play Quidditch - until now.

“It was… I suppose…”

“You thought it was fun, admit it!”

“Yes, well. Alright. Fine. I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it. A bit.” Sherlock was grateful for the wind blowing errant snowflakes off the ground and across his cheeks, as he was certain that he was blushing at this near-admission.

“You’re actually rather good, you know. Given that whole deduction thing you do -- you’d’ve made quite a fine chaser if you’d only trained up.”

Sherlock snorted. The cold created a sort of x-ray effect: he could feel, rather than see, the slender lines of his limbs, chest, waist, through his cloak. Training up would’ve taken more than he had… just like keeping John, once the year ended and the lure of life as a professional Quidditch Healer began in earnest. So practical, this boyfriend of his: found a passion, assessed his skills, made a logical choice. So strong, setting a path to follow his own dreams. So unlike himself, in every way.

“Sherlock.” John was suddenly barring his way, wrapping gloved hands around the back of his cloak. “You’ll come stay at mine tonight, yeah?”

“Yours?” The fifth-year blinked, momentarily uncomprehending. “Oh, yes. It has been weeks, I had been wondering when you would want to resume studying for your--”

“Studying?” John gave a lighthearted laugh. “Sherlock, it’s Christmas Eve! Who cares about studying? I just thought my room might be cozier, and besides, I’ve hardly been there all week. Would be nice to spend a night in my own bed, here and there -- as long as I’ve got you by my side, that is.”

* * *

“Mmmmorning,” John hummed, rubbing the tip of his nose into the dip between sharp shoulder blades, then pressing his lips to the same spot. “Merry Christmas, Sher. Anything special you’re hoping for this year?”

“To stop being called ‘Sher,’” he retorted, tugging the yellow quilt closer to his face.

“Ha, no chance of that,” John giggled, wrapping his arms even tighter around the body warming his bed.

Sherlock made a small huffing noise, then returned the inquiry with sleepy curiosity. “Why… what’re you hoping for?”

“Nothing at a-all,” he yawned back. “Why would I? In bed with the person I love, what else could I ask for?”

In the same moment, they both went stiff. John could feel Sherlock turn to look at him over his shoulder, and therefore, buried his face more deeply in his boyfriend’s back.

“Sherlock… I’m sorry, that’s… I didn’t…”

“Oh. Right. Of course. Of course you didn’t mean it. That’s quite alright, I--”

“‘Course I meant it!” John sat bolt upright and stared down at a profile that was clearly willing away tears. “Sherlock… I’m sorry because I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I had planned… oh hell. I had planned to tell you tonight, in front of the fire. I wasn’t… I thought you deserved better than… than this.”

He climbed over the unmoving line of his partner’s body, and slid under the covers to face him, wiping away rapidly falling tears with his thumb.

“Hey,” he said gently to closed eyes, “did you hear me?”

A nod.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

A nod.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I…” He choked on the word, and took several minutes to begin again.  “I didn’t know… you… could. Didn’t think anyone… especially not…” a jutting lower lip began to tremble, and John collected Sherlock to his chest, holding him through silent sobs until they both drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Hello, you,” John smiled brightly at the green eyes gazing up at him from where Sherlock had shuffled down the length of the bed.

“Hi.”

“Feel like opening some presents before breakfast?”

“Alright.” Sherlock sat up and stretched languidly, then looked back at John. “What?”

“I was just thinking,” John answered without hesitation, “about how beautiful you are. Especially when you go red like that,” he teased, sitting up and stepping through the bed curtains. “Oh! Looks like your gifts were delivered here as well! That saves us a trip then. Lovely, clever House Elves.”

Sherlock weeded through the pile, setting aside anything from his family while John opened the gifts from his father and sister.

“John, you got me a gift?”

“You’re my boyfriend, Sherlock,” he chuckled, “how many times do I have to tell you that?”

The younger boy shrugged, the emotional intensity of the morning showing clearly on his face.

“Here, then. Why don’t you go ahead and open it?”

Sherlock eyed him with suspicion, but slipped the spellotape up with graceful fingers to reveal --

“Oh, John, it’s perfect!” He exclaimed, pulling on the pale jade damask dressing gown. “It doesn’t even need to be tailored; how did you manage it?”

“I know a thing or two about you,” was the only response.

“Here, then,” Sherlock proffered a long, heavy parchment envelope, “since we’re at it. Merry Christmas, John.”

“Thanks, Sherlock!” He fought the urge to tear it open, and was glad he did when a confused expression gave way to utter shock.

“You… you got me an internship? With the Healer for the Magpies! Sherlock -- how… HOW?!”

“Family friend. Father has known Hamish MacFarlan for almost 20 years now, so it was easy enough to arrange.”

“Hamish MacFarlan is a FAMILY FRIEND? Sherlock, he’s a legend! My mother named me after him!”

“Um, John… you are aware that your name is -- OH. John H. Watson.”

John smirked. “So you did pay attention. Well,” his tone changed, considering the parchment in his hands, “clearly you did, yeah. Truly, I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“I wish I could claim it was entirely altruistic. However, if you’re spending the year studying and working in Montrose--”

“Ahh, I see. I’ll be close by you, instead of in London, is that it? All the more reason to thank you then. I couldn’t make out how I’d keep your attention being so far south.”

“Keep _my_ attention?”

“I’ll have to compete with all the brilliant young minds at Hogwarts. You’ll be chasing off Ravenclaws for two years before we can open up shop. Though I assume you will want to relocate to London for that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Ravenclaws? Oh, don’t think I haven’t noticed them looking you over since that little announcement at breakfast last week.”

“Not that, John.”

“Oh, London?” John began tidying up the wrapping and searching for the safest spot in his trunk to keep his gift from Sherlock. “We wouldn’t be likely to find too much business up here, and we’re far more likely to get cast-offs and cold cases from the Met in the capital anyway.”

“I… still don’t understand.”

John giggled. “You know, Sherlock, you should have that put on a t-shirt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on the Montrose Magpies and Hamish MacFarlan, consult "Quidditch Through the Ages" or [Harry Potter Wiki](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Montrose_Magpies)


	15. Quidditch: The Game is Never Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash-forward to the end of summer term.

The July sun had been on their side, remaining bright in a cloudless sky until past 10 that evening. It would be their final night together here, in the warm yellow-toned bed where it had, in a way, begun. Sherlock, head propped up on his left palm, had been slowly, carefully pushing deeper into his boyfriend’s sport-sculpted body for twenty minutes. The knowledge that he would be without his John for a week, and then, after what promised to be the most wonderful month of his life, that they would be properly separated for months at a time, supplied him with almost limitless patience. It was John, rather, who broke first.

“Sher…” he sighed, “I’m going to miss you. Every day, I will.”

“You say that now. But what happens when someone--”

John winced at the sudden loss of slender fingers, but only responded by lightly grasping black curls with his own strong hands. “There is no someone who could be  _ anyone _ to me, Sherlock. There will be no someone else, because there is no other like you.” He reached up to close the short distance between them, pressing his desire, his conviction, his heart against full pink lips. 

Despite himself, Sherlock hummed into the kiss as John opened his mouth, tugging at his lower lip with his teeth to gain access to the quick-witted tongue hidden within. The request was hardly necessary, as the smooth slide of lips rapidly became a clash of teeth and tongues and whispered moans, during which Sherlock shifted his weight to lie perfectly between John’s raised knees, cushion wandlessly appearing to lift his hips. 

Sherlock pulled himself forward, slipping his hands beneath John’s shoulders and resting on his forearms to mitigate the difference in their heights. Soft curls brushed John’s skin as a baritone resonated in his ear.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“Of course I’m yours.”

Warm and slick, Sherlock lined himself up with his partner and pushed just through the first ring of tight muscle. 

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I-I’m yours,” John stuttered, and Sherlock pressed ahead, breaching the second barrier. 

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I am… I’m… I’m yours,” he exhaled shakily. 

Sherlock sank himself a few inches deeper and waited for the expression on his lover’s face to relax.

“Tell me, John. Once more.”

“I… oh Merlin… I’m yours, Sherlock.”

He pushed into John’s hot body until he was fully seated, trembling from the exertion of not moving.

“When you’re ready… only when you’re ready, John… tell me what you want.”

A few moments passed, an absolute eternity, until John’s quivering whisper reached his ear.

“I want… you, Sherlock. I want you to… fuck me. Please. Fuck mee-- yesssss ohhh yessss…”

Sherlock knew the burn, the pain-pleasure that John would be feeling now, his first time opening himself like this. What he hadn’t anticipated was what John had already learned: the mind-bending squeeze of the other’s body around his desperate cock, bringing him to the absolute edge in only a few short minutes. And yet…

He opened his eyes, and there, beneath him, was his John. Mouth open, brow furrowed, and beyond stunning. Sherlock rolled his hips slowly, gently, setting a rhythm that seemed to both ease his partner’s experience and drive him closer to his end. Sherlock would deny himself forever if it meant watching John’s face as he took him in, felt his body breached and filled and utterly worshiped, as it deserved to be. 

“Fuck, Sherlock… take me. Please. Please, I’m so close… make me… yours, please!”

And for all John’s beauty, that was too much to stand. The quilt slipped to the floor as he lifted his hips and quickened his pace, faster, harder, John’s neck raising toward the ceiling. Harder, faster, beginning to sweat, the sound of his body slapping against John’s driving him mad. Pushing thighs backward, doubling over toward John’s chest, a strangled cry from below, harderharderfaster,  _ yesSherlockgodfuckmeyesyesyes, _ and he was biting down hard on a firm shoulder to keep from screaming into the night, blinded and breathless and dizzy, the void of pleasure surrounding him until his body slipped out of John’s, of its own accord. 

He must’ve collapsed his full weight on his boyfriend’s chest, as he vaguely heard a grunt before he was being rolled onto his own back and covered with the quilt, still sticky with a mixture of John’s and his own come.

A light, out of breath chuckle, and then, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John. John?”

“Mmm?”

“I love you.”

* * *

Molly knocked, then slid back the cabin door. 

“Hi! Sherlock? Um, John?” She paused and looked at the third person seated with them apologetically. “There isn’t a lot of space left. Would it be alright if I sat with you?” she asked nervously.

“Of course, come in,” John smiled welcomingly. 

“What, no invite for us, then?” came a sarcastic remark through the still open door, where two of the students from their shared Christmas dinner table stood. “Fine, we’ll just search the train for our own places.”

“Wait,” the second boy, a sixth-year Ravenclaw, chimed in, “Holmes, what’ll you be up to over summer holidays? Any chance at seeing you ‘round London?”

“Oi!” John interjected, gesturing to the space between himself and his boyfriend.

“Sorry old man, didn’t see you there. Right, well… see you in September, then?” he asked with a wink, moving on without waiting for an answer.

“The nerve of some people,” Molly agreed after John scoffed and grasped Sherlock’s knee possessively. “But good question. What  _ are _ you doing this summer?”

“Spending it with me in London,” John beamed.

“Not until I’ve wasted an entire tedious week with my parents arguing about my future.”

Molly looked at him questioningly, to which he responded first with his trademark roll of the eyes.

“Consulting Detective work. No Muggle has ever been that clever, but between my intellect and my skills as a wizard, I suspect I can solve a fair few cases for a decent profit. Not that I have any idea how to charge in Muggle money…”

“Just one more reason you’ll need me -- aside from my Healing skills, the way you’re likely to run around that city.”

“What about you, Molly?” asked their fourth companion.

“London as well. I’m hoping to work in the healing research divisions. I’d love to get into St. Mungo’s when I finish school!”

“That’s where I’ll be! If you’d like to come down, I’ll show you around. Anytime.” 

Molly grew a bit red under the beaming smile that accompanied the offer -- a change which was not lost on John.

“Molly,” he ventured, “have you met Mike Stamford?”


	16. Epilogue: After a Two-Year Hiatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later...

“Yes, Mummy, of course I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“And you won’t let him get seriously injured. Or worse, expose himself to those Muggles,” she said, with less concern than derision. 

“No, Mummy.”

“It is your job after all.”

“I have a fairly considerable team working under me at the Department of Mysteries--”

“A minor position in the Wizarding Government. I recommend a tap on the Floo Network, at least in places where he is likely to wander.”

“ _ Mother _ , I assure you that I can--”

“Can you? I had to find out about the drugs from John. From John, do you hear me? Thank goodness he has his head on straight, despite being half-Muggle himself. What your excuse is, I certainly don’t know.”

“Once again, you have my sincerest apologies. Would it suit you if I brought Sherrinford in on this as well?”

“Hm. Well… that might be necessary, yes. Boyfriend or not, we endeavor to keep him safe. After all, he is the emotional one.”

Mycroft Holmes sighed, and cut himself another slice of cake.


End file.
